


Dean Has A Gross Crush On The New Gardener

by CheekyDoodles



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alive Mary Winchester, Castiel and Kids, Dean Winchester Has a Crush on Castiel, Dean is a Little Shit, First Crush, Fluff, Gardener Castiel, Gardener Dean, Gardens & Gardening, Gen, Kid Dean Winchester, Kid Fic, Kid Sam Winchester, Meddling Kids, Parent Mary Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-02
Packaged: 2019-02-26 15:13:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13238403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheekyDoodles/pseuds/CheekyDoodles
Summary: Moving into a new house has ten year old Dean's attitude wilting. Until the new (weird) gardener starts working in the Winchester yard every Saturday...





	Dean Has A Gross Crush On The New Gardener

**Author's Note:**

> this has been in my head-drafts for 2 years and my actual written drafts for 1 year. i had the idea while i used to do yard work for a kind older woman in the florida summer, which is a bit brutal, sometimes. gardening is great to me, and a lovely way to get your brain feeling better. and i laughed a lot writing this, i think kids are hilarious and it's refreshing to write from the view of a kid.  
> a few quicknotes:  
> • this is a fic about a ten year old having an innocent crush on an 19 year old.  
> • it is in no way meant to be suggestive, at all, ever. nothing explicit is in here.  
> • please... no surprise in-depth critiques. this is meant to be happy and fun.  
> • thank you friend

“Catch it Sammy!”

Dean holds a stuffed dog over his little brother's head, just out of his reach. Sammy, small as he is, can only hop a few inches off the ground to reach his stuffed animal. Each time Dean stretches further away, dangling the very precious Mr. Bones. 

“Give him back Deen!” Sammy squeaks, voice still etched in those strange toddler pitches. His cheeks are reddening and he pulls at Dean's shirt.

Dean pushes him away. “Almost got it!”

It's the weekend, and the Nintendo is still in the big brown “GAMES” box, Dean has built and broken all of the model planes Dad sent him, he isn't allowed to use the kitchen yet since most of the cookware is in boxes too, and nothing good is on TV. So this is prime entertainment at the Moment.

It's not Dean's fault that Sammy decides to cry about it. Fat tears roll down his face like tadpoles as he starts to shout for Mom, who's apron strings whip around the corner in a hot second. She's fast to react, because Sam and Dean are fast with their trouble.

In one hand Mom has her phone and in the other hand is a paintbrush. Her hair is in a high bun and there's more sky blue paint on her hands than her yellow apron. She tells whoever is on the phone to please hang on a second. 

“ _ Dean _ ,” is all she has to say in  _ that _ way to make Dean return the Mr. Bones and cross his arms. “Do not bully your little brother. He's only five and you're ten now, you should know better.”

Sam squeezes Mr. Bones to himself, giving Dean an impressively nasty look for such a baby-face. Dean sticks his tongue out at him and follows their Mom back into the kitchen. 

Mom is painting the cabinets, phone tucked in her shoulder-head crevice. Dean perches his elbows on the counter and Sam climbs into a chair at the table to talk with Mr. Bones. Dean watches Mom's hands move with her paintbrush, pink fingernails caked with blue paint. She's talking to someone about  _ insurance _ , whatever that means. 

“I'm booored,” Dean whines, head drooping.

Mom shoots him another look and continues her conversation.

Dean whines at the counter tiles. “Boooored… Mom… I'm dying… of the boredom… Mooooom…”

That does it. Mom says to the person on the phone, “Mr. Crowley, I'm sorry, I'm gonna have to call you back… Yes, thank you.” Mom has Dean press the red button on her phone since her hands are painty. Her voice is a mask of patience. “Honey. I'm sorry you are bored. Look, I've got a lot to do.  How about this: did you clean your room?”

“Yes.”

Mom raises one eyebrow.

“I did!”

“Good. How about you help unpack the kitchen if you want something to do? Then you could cook.” Dean would rather just do the cooking part, so he says no thanks. Mom says he should help paint, but he declines. “Draw me a picture?” Nope. “Fold the laundry?” Gross. Mask gone, she finally suggests maybe he play with Sam outside and get out of her hair, so he does. 

“Be careful, the gardener is out there trimming, so just be sure you stay out of his way.” Mom says.

“Yeah yeah. C’mon Sammy. Let's grab the guns.”

With a pair of rubber boots for Sammy, dirty sneakers for Dean, and two NERF guns in the boy's hands, they tromp out the back door and into the  green open mouth of the backyard. 

Their new house came with lots of plants to take care of, and Mom was happy because at the apartment they didn't have a yard. And there are two tall leafy trees that shade the yard in blue, cool patches safe from the yellow sun. Mom put a metal table and chairs in the blue on some rough flat stones, and sometimes they sit there to eat. The grass is spongy in places and hard to run on or ride bikes on, especially when it rains. But it feels good to do cartwheels and somersaults on. 

Dean and Sam play a skewed version of Cops and Robbers Dean created, called Robots and Werewolves. Dean decided to be the robot because Sam likes to run around howling like a wolf. Home base is the patio table, where they can safely relax and re-scheme their next plans of attack. They shoot their bright orange bullets at everything, shrieking about aliens, or for Sammy, “aleens!”. 

They play for an hour or more, until Sam's hair is stuck to his pink forehead in brown wisps and Dean needs a juice. They come back to the refrigerated house with sticky shirts and ugly knees. Dean yanks open the fridge too hard, grabbing two juices. The two sit at the table and suck the pink boxes until they're hollow, then Dean grabs two more and they start on them. The pie in the fridge looks good and he's getting hungry, so he cuts them each a triangle, even though dinner will be soon.

Just sitting down to eat, the front door opens in the front room and Mom is talking to someone. The voices move toward the kitchen and the gardener is walking in behind her. 

He's got patches of dirt on him, and his pink skin is sweaty, almost like the way ham looks. His  ratty blue shirt sticks to him in darker spots. But his hands are white and clean, compared to his streaked arms, as if he's wearing rubber gloves. His green garden gloves hang out of his back pocket. He's got dark wavy hair and looks old, but not old like Mom. More like Dean’s cousin Garth, who's in college. He’s taller than Mom, anyway.

“Thank you so much Castiel, you've been such a help,” Mom says, scribbling on one of those paper rectangles she sticks into the ATM machine.

“My pleasure. You have a lovely new home.” The gardner,  _ Castiel _ ? sounds kinda quiet. He looks at the table, his sad-looking eyes first on Sammy (busy picking a scab on his elbow) then to Dean. Dean starts a bit, but doesn't let go of his end of the stare. He's good at staring contests. He chews the straw of his drink silently.

Then the gardener says “oh” and digs into his back pocket. He crouches by the table and holds out four bright orange NERF darts. “I think these belong to you two. I found them in the hedge. Make sure you don’t lose them, or else you won’t be able to fight the aliens.” 

The gardener smiles at Dean as he says this, and this is when Dean decides he doesn’t like this guy at all. He makes Dean’s stomach funny and he can’t look right at him, somehow. Dean watches the big hand before snatching the darts out of it and squeezing them in his fist.

Mom replaces the darts in the gardener’s hand with the paper rectangle, which he folds and slides into his back pocket. The she notices the pie. “Boys! Dinner is in two hours, you couldn't wait?”

Sam and Dean just shake their heads. 

Mom just sighs. “Oh. You boys haven't met. Sam, Dean, say hello to our gardener, Castiel Novak. He's going to be here once in awhile.”

“Hello Sam, hello Dean” Mr. Novak says.

Sammy is playing shy, hiding his grin under the table edge. 

Dean asks, “Why do you have a girl’s name?”

Dean only hears Mom’s indignation since he’s watching his juice box: a light scoff followed by the second, “ _ Dean _ ” of the day.

Instead of being upset, Mr. Novak says, “My name is kind of feminine, isn’t it? My mother named me after an angel. But I like to go by Cas.”

As if the boy hadn’t spoken, Dean is absorbed in sticking the darts on his fingers. 

Mom sighs but doesn't push the manners further. She thanks the tall boy again and walks him out. Not before Mr. Novak says goodbye, which Dean also ignores. Sammy calls bye a bit too late as the front door closes in the next room, having finally overcome his shyness.

Dean's stomach is swimming in his snack uncomfortably. His hands need to move. He stands up. “Let's go watch TV, Sammy. Maybe the cupcake show is on.”

 

\- - - -

  
  


A week later, Dean sits in the living room window, smallish fingers spreading the blinds so he can peek through them. Mom already walked by with the hamper and asked him what he was looking at, to which he lied quickly and said he thought he saw his friend Chuck drive by. It's not right to lie but… this mission is secret. Not even Sammy knows-- he’s in his room taking his afternoon nap.

The target rounds the hedge and Dean sits up a bit, careful not to spread the blinds too wide. The target has the big rusty wheelbarrow full of red mulch bags, the kind that makes Dean’s eyes itch. He has a green ballcap on today, and yellow sneakers. He stands in the shade of the swing-tree (Uncle Bobby came over and hung a swing for them, which Dean and Sam have spent every available second on) for a Moment and takes a big breath. He wipes his forehead with the hem of his dirty shirt, leaving a bit of a smudge on his forehead. Then he walks over closer to Dean’s window seat, and kneels down before a planter full of weeds.

Dean grins wide, biting his tongue. His plan is working perfectly.

Earlier today he snuck up into the attic, where Mom was storing some stuff they’d had in closets at their old place. He’d rooted through the big plastic bins in the attic marked “HALLOWEEN”, which is a couple months out yet. But he had remembered something very important in bed the night before and had to scribble a note to himself so he wouldn’t forget it: The Spider. 

The Spider is a rubber spider Mom bought for Halloween when Sam was a smaller baby and Dean was six. It’s about the size of both of Dean’s open hands, black and green, covered in little hairs and a raspberry cluster of red eyes on its ugly head. Most importantly: The Spider is terrifying. It used to scare him so much he would have nightmares about The Spider eating his fingers off like little sausages. Mom didn’t think it was scary, she likes scary stuff. But Dean knew of its horrors. Only when he got older did he realize he had more to be scared of than a fake spider. Like zombies. Or broken bones. Or Dad's yelling. 

Even so, Dean still couldn’t hold The Spider so he held it with some tongs from the kitchen drawer and carried it outside this morning while Mom was busy making (burning) eggs. There he planted in the weediest flower bed, so he knew Mr. Novak would find it. 

And it’s working! Mr. Novak has his gloved-hands in the planter, pulling up the exact big clump of grass Dean had put right on top of The Spider, and… and… 

What? Heck no! Mr. Novak doesn’t even jump! He’s looking right at it and it isn’t scaring him?! Mr. Novak actually smiles, and picks up The Spider and shakes the dirt off. He puts the terrible evil to the side like it’s nothing and continues to work. 

“What the heck,” Dean mutters, glaring through the blinds.

There’s no way Mr. Novak heard him, but he looks up at the window and Dean recoils, slipping off the seat and landing on the floor. Ouch. After a minute or two Dean crawls back up to watch Mr. Novak work until he finishes, Dean pouring all of his indignation through a slat in the blinds.

When Mr. Novak is satisfied with the mulch he’s spread evenly around the pink clumps of flowers, and put away his tools, he starts to walk toward the back door. Dean flies off the window seat, racing him and slipping around Mom to get to the kitchen first and sit at the table. He grabs a banana from the bowl and un-peels it just as the back door opens. 

“Mrs. Winchester? I'm done for the day.” he stomps his feet on the outside rug before coming in, bringing a whoosh of hot air Dean can taste.

“Already? You work too hard! Let me go get my purse-- please get yourself something to drink!” Mom calls as she leaves Dean with Mr. Novak. 

Dean doesn’t look at Mr. Novak so hard that when the older boy holds his hand out, Dean almost doesn’t notice. “Dean, I think this may be yours? I found it in the flower bed.” 

Mr. Novak, friendly smile on his dumb face, is handing Dean The Spider.

Dean glares at the now dirty, disappointing decoration and takes it away by carefully pinching one of its legs in his thumb and pointer. He drops it on the table without a thanks, dirt crumbling off it.

“Here we go,” Mom is back, handing Mr. Novak another rectangle (a  _ check _ , Dean has sleuthed), to which he says thank you. “Oh Dean, I thought you hated bananas,” she asks.

Dean shakes his head and takes a big bite of the fruit he truly does hate and chews with zeal.

After Mr. Novak and Mom talk about something, he makes to leave, but not without saying goodbye to a very silent, sullen, stomach-flipping Dean. And as soon as the gardener does leave, Dean quickly gets up and spits out his mouth full of mushy banana in the trash can.

  
  


\- - - -

  
  


Within the next week, Dean was mostly preoccupied with returning to school and laying down the law in his third grade classroom. That and returning to gymnastics after school twice a week. So he hadn't had much time to think about Mr. Novak and what he should throw at him next. Mom informed him that Mr. Novak also had to return to school, er, college. So he would be coming on Saturdays now. 

So after class on Friday, where Dean met Sammy at his kindergarten class and walked him to the parent pick-up area hand in hand, Dean finally thought to ask,

“Sammy, what’s scary?”

Two boys in Dean's class (Raphael and Michael) made fun of Dean for holding Sammy’s hand on the first day back at school, pointing and making baby noises. So on the next day, Dean found them on the playground and pushed them both off their swings and into the dirt. Their teacher, Miss Mara, later asked Raphael and Michael where they got their scrapes from. Mom did not appreciate that phone call home. But it had to be done. Now Raphael and Michael steer clear of Dean and Sammy.

“Um… Aleens is scary. S’why we gotta shoot them. And ghosts they fly, they fly around in the sky n’ woosh inta people's brains.”

Sam has Mr. Bones clutched to his chest with his free hand. The first week of Kindergarten was stressful for him even after going through preschool, but he said he'd made a friend named Ruby and they liked to find the “best rocks” during recess, so he was feeling better. 

“No I mean like, for real scary. Nevermind. Listen, we gotta scare Mr. Novak.”

“Why?”

“Because I said so. I was thinkin’ we could hide in a bush, yeah? And when he comes over to cut it, we could jump out and scare him.”

“Like the ghosts?”

“Kind of. You know what? That’s a good idea Sammy.”

Mom picks them up shortly and drives them home in their blue car, not before speaking with Miss Mara about Dean's “behavior”.  Mom's car smells good and has snacks, but Dean really loves when Dad picks them up in his big black car. Because all the kids and teachers look at him like he's very grownup, and Dad doesn't talk to his teachers about his behavior.

Once home, backpacks are flung off, snacks are eaten, and  the coffee table is caked with craft supplies. One laborious hour has yielded two masks with eyeholes. Dean cut Sam’s out for him to color on, and Sam says his purple and orange-streaked mask is an alien dog. Dean began with an alien then decided that zombies are scarier. His mask is a bit more elaborate, given his skill with tissue paper and glue to make texture. And a knack for mixing a realistic blood color with markers. Dean loops a string through each mask so that they can be worn hands-free.

“Think this is scary enough, Sammy?” Dean has his mask on and does his best gargling zombie impression at Sam, the one he learned from The Walking Dead. Watching that show without Mom knowing was cool and the grossness was fun, until that night when Dean was so freaked out imagining zombies crawling out from under his bed, he had to beg Mom to sleep with her in her bed. 

Sam has his mask on, and his little hazel eyes go wide behind it before he nods quickly. “Scary, Deen.”

They hide their masks where Mom can't find them, already giddy to execute their plan tomorrow afternoon.

 

 

\- - - -

  
  


Their masks may have been full-proof, but hiding in the hedge was not the best idea. For one, the hedge was pretty poky and itchy. Two, there were bugs. And three, Mr. Novak hadn't seen them before he started trimming the hedge with the electric trimmer.

The plan as well, in theory, was perfect. Knowing Mom had scheduled Mr. Novak to trim the overgrown hedge, Dean had scoped out the perfect part of the hedge to hide in the day before. As soon as they saw Mr. Novak pull up in his ugly tan truck, Dean and Sam snatched up their masks and flew out into the backyard. From there, they would wait until Novak got around to them. How long would that take, anyway? Not more than ten minutes. And they brought juice and some trail mix.

Well, no. According to Dean's watch, it took more than twenty minutes for Mr. Novak to make his way to their hedge. And once he fired up the electric trimmer, it was a bit too loud to hear them yell. Also, Mr. Novak started trimming just maybe another two heads above them, which was a bit scary. 

Dean and Sam, cramped and sweaty in their hiding space, could only see Mr. Novak’s feet and hairy legs before them. The brothers looked at each other through their masks, and Dean was pretty sure Sam's wide eyes looked like his own.

“Go go go!” Dean said over the whir of the saw. And rather than bursting from the hedge and growling in a menacing way, the brothers more or less fell out of the hedge shrieking nonsense. Sam ran off toward the house as fast as his short legs could carry him, too scared to even try and say his own scary phrase, “gobble gobble gobble,” which he had rehearsed many times throughout the day.

Dean spun around in his flurry to at least make the best zombie noises he could manage at Mr. Novak before stealing away into the house.

To Dean's satisfaction, Mr. Novak did look scared. Mr. Novak was standing there with his arms raised, saw in his hands. His eyes were wide beneath the brim of his purple ballcap, his mouth open. 

Awesome.

The saw turned off and Mr. Novak called at them to wait, asking if they were okay, but the brothers were already in the house and diving into the dark of their secret spot in the hall closet. Which is where they are now.

“Did we scare ‘em?” Sam asks, panting. His mask is hanging from one of his ears.

Dean takes off his mask so he can breathe better. “Yeah, I think so. Nice job, Sammy.” His heart is hammering, all his arms and legs are kind of feeling spooked. He almost feels bad, but he knows he feels good because he keeps smiling.

They stay in the closet for a few minutes, awash in the glory, until Mom's voice bounces through the house. And she does not sound like she wants to make them lunch.

“Boys! Boys come here right  _ now _ !”

The brothers look at each other for the second time today with the same face of fear. “Uh-oh,” Sammy whispers. They slowly slip out of their space and slug into the kitchen, where Mom is standing like a statue, arms crossed, hip cocked. Uh-oh is right-- that's Mom's “big trouble” stance. 

Mr. Novak is also there, looking very much like he does not want to be there. His gloves are still on and he wrings them together. Dean can't look at him very long, suddenly feeling his stomach do the bouncy thing it does way too often lately.

“Why were you boys in the hedge?”

Dean doesn't even bother to try and lie. His face gets hot all the same. He swallows. “We were, we were going to try and scare Mr. Novak.”

“Why did you want to scare him?”

“Because I…” Dean isn't really sure, now. He wasn't really sure why the whole time. He settles for that. “I don't know.”

Mom reams him for a good minute, telling him how he put himself, Sam and Mr. Novak in danger. How he's been acting out these past few weeks and she is sick of it. Dean can only stand there, unhappy and embarrassed. Then Mom ices the bitter cake.

“Dean, next weekend you are going to help Mr. Novak with the yard work.”

“What? No way, no!” Dean grimaces.

“Yes way. You said you were bored, and now you'll have something to do.”

“But that was--!”

“No discussion. Boys, apologize to Castiel.”

It takes a bit for Dean to swallow the threat of tears.  “Sorry Mr. Novak,” Dean mumbles at the same time Sam does.

“It's alright,” Mr. Novak says, not so happy. “I'm just glad you're both okay.”

Mom seems satisfied by their exchange, so she lets Mr. Novak return to work. As for the boys, she sentences them to spend the rest of the day inside, doing something “constructive”, as she likes to call it.

As Dean is doing the dishes, he tips on his toes, carefully watching Mr. Novak finish the hedge through the kitchen window.

  
  


\- - - -

  
  


The Saturday is a blue one, without any clouds to distract the heat from Dean's quickly-freckling, sweating skin. It would be perfect to go to Chuck’s house to play in his pool, or even the park to ride bikes. Instead, Dean has his hands in the dirt, pulling weeds.

Dean was sent out the back door as soon as Mr. Novak arrived this afternoon. Not before being sunscreened, hatted and gloved. Ugh.  And Sam, after begging, was allowed out with a warning to listen and behave.  

Mr. Novak smiled at Dean and said “Hello, Dean. Are you ready to work?”

And all of Dean's angry thoughts were immediately struck quiet. His chest flurried up and he was afraid his mouth wouldn't stop nervous-smiling without him telling it to if he said anything. Because he  _ wasn't _ happy about the arrangement. So he frowned, distrustful.

Sammy was shy as again, but overcame it and wandered over to the gardener, and subsequently followed them all around the yard this afternoon.

“What are you doing?” Sammy asks Mr. Novak now, who is busily digging around a blue-flowered bush.  Sam has warmed up to the older boy considerably over the course of the hour.

Dean hasn't said anything over a “mhm”. He's pulling weeds, stuck on a hard clump of very strong grass.

Mr. Novak says, “Replanting this plumbago so it will have more sun.”

“Plum bagel?” Sam asks.

Mr. Novak snickers. “A plumbago.”

“We, we always just call those sticky flowers,” Sam says.

“Why?”

“They're sticky.”

To test this, Mr. Novak plucks a few flowers from the bush and sticks them to the sleeve of Sam's shirt. “Huh, you're right about that.”

“Hey!” Sam takes the flowers, now squished blue bits, and sticks them toMr. Novak’s arm. He runs off in a fit of giggles when Mr. Novak acts surprised by this.

They continue to work and Mr. Novak seems content with quiet, so Dean continues to not say anything.

And it's nice to just… sit. A bird calls overhead, bugs are chirping and the fresh dirt smells like, well it smells like dirt. Dirt always smells a certain way, and who's to say what that is exactly? It changes, though, when it rains or when it freezes or when the sun is baking it like right now. Dean never really thought about it until he's sat here, toiling in it.

“Dean, do you want me to pull that for you?”

Dean comes back to his noodle and shakes his head quickly. He's still working on the grass clump. He tugs and tugs with both hands but it won't budge. 

“Dang it,” Dean huffs in defeat. 

“Here.” Mr. Novak kneels down right beside him and grabs the stupid grass clump. “I'll show you a trick. You twist the tough weeds back and forth, like this. Then they come up easy.” He pulls the weed up without a hitch and tosses it into the wheelbarrow.

Dean looks away and sidles farther down the planter row.

After a minute, Mr. Novak speaks again. “Um. If it's any consolation, Dean, you scared me a lot last week.”

Dean stalls. “...Yeah?”

“Yes. Your masks were very convincing as well. But, please don't do it again.” He laughs. “If you guys wanted to play, you should have let me finish working, first, and I would've loved to hang out.”

Surprised by the appeal of “hanging out” with Mr. Novak, Dean looks at him under the brim of his own ball cap. He smiles for the first time today. Albeit a small, embarrassed smile. He says, “Okay. I think… I mean, sorry, Mr. Novak.”

Mr. Novak smiles. “No worries. And please, just call me Cas.”

That settled, Cas returns to carefully digging around the bush with a shovel, then with his hands, finally uprooting it. Its roots are like hundreds of little white veins in its mound of dark dirt. 

“Where’re you gonna move it?” Dean asks.

Cas picks up the smallish bush and shields his eyes from the sun. “Over there by the liriope.”

“The what?”

“Liriope. The grassy looking plant.”

“Oh. Um. Can I help?” Dean asks, standing up quickly. 

Almost surprised, Cas looks down at Dean and smiles. “Sure. Grab that shovel for me, please.”

Dean gets the shovel and follows Cas to the planter with the liriope. Cas digs a hole and asks Dean to make sure it looks centered from some distance. Then he lets Dean help fill in the dirt around the plant.

“This looks good, thank you Dean. You're a good worker.” Cas sounds satisfied.

Dean's heart hugs itself. “No problem.”

  
  


\- - - -

  
  


Thanks to Cas’ shining review of Dean's good work, Mom figured Dean had redeemed himself and did not have to continue helping with the yardwork. But from that Saturday afternoon onward, Dean spent every one in the garden with Cas. And Sammy liked to tag along too, feeling part of something important. 

And Cas always has a job for them to do. Dean gets to dig holes, move plants, toss snails, spread mulch, and pull weeds, though that one is his least favorite job so he delegates it to Sammy. Cas has taught him how to safely remove a plant from its pot, how flowers work, why plants get fungus and how to water just enough. But Dean's favorite job is getting to go inside and get cold water for them, because Cas is always very grateful for it. 

Cas has taught him a lot, and answers really any question Dean can scrounge up to throw at him. 

“What's that?” Dean asked one week, pointing at the big pink flowers by the front door. They're Mom's favorite.

“Hibiscus,” Cas answered easily.

Or when a bug landed on Dean's arm and Cas lead it onto his hand. “It's okay, it's just a potato-bug,” Cas had said.  Sammy was delighted by the name but Dean was still wary of the big green ugly.

And Dean is infinitely curious about Cas’ life, asking questions about him as well. Like, he's in college to learn about botany (plant stuff), so he can be a botanist (plant scientist). Cas says college is just like elementary school, only bigger, class can happen at night, and you can get up and go to the bathroom without raising your hand. Cas has brothers too! The older one's name is Gabriel and he likes chocolate milk. The younger one's name is Jack and he likes Star Wars. Cas likes every color, has a guinea pig named Hanna, and can't ride a bike.

So when Cas starts asking the questions, Dean finds himself mysteriously clammed up.

“What do you like to do, Dean?” Cas asks him today.

“Uh… I like… cooking.”

“What do you like to cook?”

“...I dunno.”

“You don't know what you like to cook?”

Dean blushes. “I mean! I like to cook anything. I like to help Mom cook or make food for Sammy. Like grilled cheese ‘n stuff.”

“I see.” Then Cas says, “You're a good big brother.”

“...Yeah?”

“Yes. You are a very good big brother. Like my big brother.”

Dean blushes again, the hair on his arms raising from the praise. Then he says, as a buffer, “I don’t think Mom thinks so.”

“Why do you think so?”

“I dunno.” Thinking better of using that again, Dean says, “She’s mad at me.”

“For what you and Sam did in the hedge?”

“Well… I got in a fight at school. Then... I didn’t do my science project. And I might have broken the mixer yesterday...”

Cas is quiet for a Moment. “Hm. I don’t think your mother thinks that way. I think she just wants you to do good,  and maybe give a bit more help. Like you're doing right now.”

They leave it at that, for Cas asks Dean to help him prune the crotons, which Dean likes to do because he gets to use the clippers.

 

\- - - -

  
  


Next week, Cas shows up with a present for both Sam and Dean. 

“Whatcha got, Cas?” Sammy is immediately bouncing at the older boy's legs as he's walking through their front door. Cas has started coming through the front door now, to chat with the family before heading out to work. 

In his hands, Cas has two small potted plants. “I come bearing gifts. I hope that's alright?” Cas looks at Mom, who is walking past with the old dusty bathroom light fixture she’s uninstalled.

“Oh wow, Castiel that's very nice of you. Say thank you, boys.” Mom says.

Dean and Sam carefully take the little potted plants from Cas, saying thank you. 

“What kinda plant it is?” Sam asks.

“They are called cosmos.” Cas tells them it’s their job to take care of their plants, no one else’s. “Make sure you water them everyday, but only a bit, Sam. Just to keep the soil wet. Keep them in the sunshine of a windowsill, and they will grow flowers.”

Dean wonders over his little plant, a baby-green sprig of tiny leaves. He puts his on the kitchen windowsill carefully, thanking Cas again before they fall into their Saturday routine.

Last weekend, Mom had the idea to make a stone walkway from the patio to the swing tree. She showed Cas and Dean a glossy picture from a magazine she’d bought at the grocery. The picture showed a bumblebee trail of circle stones, curling through someone’s plushy green garden. Cas said he could do it, so Mom bought the stones.

Which is why Dean is having a very rough time, right now. 

Everything is kinda yellow, something about the tall stacks of purple storm clouds on the horizon, like piles of folded towels, makes it like that. They’re far enough away to not be a worry, but they do make the air itself sweaty even with the breeze. Sitting in the grass for a breather, Dean wipes his forehead on his arm. All the flat holes for the stones have been dug. But the stones are much heavier than they look. 

Cas doesn’t seem to mind the weight, grabbing one of the circles from the stack in the wheelbarrow and walking it to the first hole.  

Dean, pressed to the edge of the wheelbarrow, grabs a stone and pulls it toward himself. It scrapes unpleasantly against the one beneath it, then Dean has it in his arms whether he likes it or not. Crap. It’s heavier than the food processor. But he’s definitely got it. Now, he just has to walk maybe five steps to a hole. One, two, his arms are aching, three, he’s going to drop it any second, four--

Before five, Cas takes the stone from him, just before he can drop it. “Dean, don’t. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

Dean pants, his arms prickling. “I totally had it. I can lift them.”

“No, you cannot. You’re not strong enough for this. How about you take a break?” Cas tilts his head, easily holding that stupid stone. His arms are swollen from the weight of it, and not dragging like Dean’s.

Dean wrinkles his nose. “Whatever.” He walks away, turns on his heel and plops down in the shady grass. He watches Cas lay all of the stones and adjust them, some scribbly anger filling him up. To pass the time, Dean plucks grass blades and lines them up on his bare leg.

“Dean, did you want to help me finish these up?” Cas asks.

“No,” Dean calls, voice muffled by his mouth pressed to his hand. He’s still fixated on the grass.

Cas says nothing back, but Dean hears his approaching footsteps. Then his shadow melts into the tree’s. “What’s the matter?” Cas asks. 

Dean doesn’t even look at Cas’ sneakers, at the edge of his vision. “Nothin’.” He plucks some more grass and worries it to a green smudge in his fingers.

Cas lays a grass blade next in line on Dean’s knee. His voice is quiet, not unhappy. “I asked you not to lift the stones, because I don’t want you to get hurt. But, you are very strong, Dean. You help me out tremendously with your hard work.”

A moment passes, and Dean wipes his fingers on his shorts, those ugly scribbles turning to clean lines. “Then… can I help you finish?”

Cas offers his hand, and pulls Dean up to his feet, grass collection forgotten. “Of course. Get your shovel.” 

  
  


\- - - -

 

“Uh… oh.”

Standing in the yard, the hedge trimmers so heavy in his hands, halfway wishing he'd get struck by freak-lightning like a kid he saw on the news once, Dean compares the two hibiscus that frame the front doorway. And they are  _ very  _ uneven.

Like, Picasso uneven. According to his art teacher, Miss Meg, that's about as uneven as you can get.

The one on the left is sort of pickle-shaped now, and half the size of the right one, that looks like in got struck in a blender.  Dean's vision of two perfectly sculpted bush-spheres from a magazine was a lot tougher than he'd imagined. Dean hadn't meant to get carried away, really. He'd just wanted to help Cas, because Cas said he liked when Dean helped. And Mom was super happy about the stone path. 

But now Dean has ruined Mom's favorite plants, and made  _ more  _ work for Cas to do.

Dean's insides twinge like he’s got the flu. He drops the trimmers and quickly starts picking up all of the trimmings and throwing them in the yard waste can. Maybe if he can get it cleaned up, Mom won't notice, or Cas won't--

Too late. As if on cue, Cas’ car pulls up into the drive right before Dean, who might as well be on stage with the curtains drawing apart. Cas gets out of his car, shuts the door and walks up the driveway a couple steps.  At the same Moment he sees Dean and says hello, he must see the uneasy look Dean can feel on his face. Dean wills himself not to yartz. 

“Are you okay, Dean? Why are you…” Cas’ eyes shift to undoubtedly see the destruction just behind Dean. His eyebrows raise.

Caught red-handed (er, glove-handed), Dean can't even think up a good lie. And he would really, really like to have a good lie. Cas is going to be furious! And Mom will be so angry at Dean she won't let him work with Cas anymore! Worse-- she'll fire Cas because he taught Dean how to use trimmers in the first place…

Cas walks up the front path and stands beside Dean to survey his hack-job. Cas doesn't say anything as he touches the now-ugly hibiscus, picking up a flower from the ground. “Did you do this?” he asks.

Dean’s throat seems to swell up. He wishes the grass would just eat him up and hide him away where the moles live. Tears are making his vision swimmy but he doesn't wipe them off. 

“Yes,” Dean croaks. The words spill with his eyes, involuntary. “I ruined Mom's favorite plants because I cut them too short and now they're ugly and now she's gonna fire you probably and I just wanted to help you so we could play together today but it's my fault, and now you're angry, and I--”

“Dean,” Cas is next to him, squatting to see him better. Cas has Dean's hand in his own to get his attention. “It's okay, it's okay. You didn't ruin the plants.”

Dean is wiping his eyes with his free arm. His chest is shuddering. “Nuh-uh, I crapped up Mom's plants.”

“The plants are fine, really. They will grow back. And they will be fuller than before.”  

“...Really?”

Cas smiles his smile and sticks the hibiscus in Dean's shirt collar. He squeezes Dean’s shoulders and rubs his arms up and down, so that he can’t hide his face. The touch scares that nasty feeling away. “Really. I'm not angry with you, Dean.”

Dean's breath comes back to him. He quickly wipes his eyes and nose on his shirt, leaving dark smears. Gross. But he feels much better.

Cas stands up and says they ought to get to work, giving Dean's shoulder a final squeeze before letting him go. With the trimmers, Cas easily cleans up the hibiscus’ to match each other again, even if they’re smaller. Again he reassures Dean that this will help them grow back much fuller, with even more flowers. 

Cas and Dean gather the flowers for Dean give to his mother. From then on, Dean sticks to picking up the trimmings.

 

 

\- - - -  
  


“Mom!” 

Standing on a stepstool at the bathroom sink, Dean groans at the mess on his head. Mom’s “moose” was the really wrong thing to use in his hair. Now it’s all crunchy. And the comb isn’t working. And he only has-- he checks his watch-- fifteen minutes! Dean tries to pull the comb through his sticky hair once more and, oops. Ouch.

“Mooom!”

“Coming!” Mom calls. She enters the bathroom and stands before Dean, staring at his predicament: one hand full of “moose”, comb stuck in his hair, eyes filling with panic. “Oh, sweetie,” she pouts. Mom moves to rescue him, but not before she quickly takes out her phone and snaps a picture of him.

“Hey, this is serious!” Dean shouts, face growing hot. She's probably gonna send that to Aunt Rowena. Ugh.

“I know, I’m sorry. But I’m the Mom. Okay, let’s see what we’ve got here.” Mom takes his face in her cool hands and assesses the situation. She tries a gentle tug on the comb, with no luck. 

“Ow!”

“Oops. Sorry, sweetie. Hm. Looks like we need to wash your hair to get this out. And I think we should start fresh anyway. Okay?”

“Okay,” Dean mumbles.

“Head down.”

Mom washes Dean’s hair in the sink with warm water, rinsing out all the product and freeing the comb. Her hands soothe his scalp, reminding him of bubble baths with little Sammy, of watermelon soap and having his his hair washed because he never did it properly. His insides begin to unknot as he breathes into the splashing sink.

Mom dries his hair with a hand towel and asks, “What fancy hairdo were you going for with all that mousse?”

Dean curls his tongue. “Um, you know, like, swooped up. Like Church Hair,” he explains with a swooping gesture. They haven’t been to Church since Dean was still getting his hair washed for him, but Mom always did style his hair for Church, too.

“Ah, I see. Well, you want to use gel for church hair. And always use a brush, not a comb. Combs are the worst.”

“Agreed.”

Mom opens the mirror cabinet and takes a blue bottle of gel, squirting some into her fingers. “I'm very proud of you, Dean.”

“Mom…”

“Shh. I am.” Mom uses the back of her hand to touch the underside of Dean's chin. “You organized this lunch for Castiel all by yourself. That's a very generous thing to do.”

“I guess,” Dean shrugs. “And it's not just for Cas! It's for you and Sammy, too...”

“Mhm, sure.” Mom starts to work his short bangs upward with the gooey gel. “And it's not just that. You've been doing good in school, you've been very respectful, you've helped Castiel every weekend for two months now…”

Dean just fidgets and rolls his eyes over a thanks, and Mom is finished when his bangs stay up like a soft bird's wing above his forehead. With one of his few and lesser worn Nice Shirts on, he really does look ready for Church, or the Olive Garden.

“How’s that?” Mom asks.

“Much better,” Dean sighs. He checks his watch again and gasps. “It’s already one o’clock!” He hops down from the stool and races through the house and out the back door.

The patio table isn’t set yet! Dean looks to Sammy, who is now wearing the floral tablecloth over his head and romping around the grass.

“Boo!” Sammy shrieks, throwing his hands up.

“Sammy, you were supposed to set the table,” Dean says, yanking the tablecloth off of his brother. 

“Hey!” Sammy giggles. “But I did set the table, Deen.”

The table has 3 mismatched cups, four paper plates, Mr. Bones, a Barbie Doll and part of a tangelo on it. And now there's a bird, snatching up the tangelo. “That isn’t set, Sammy. Nevermind, I’ll do it.”

Dean gets to work setting the table with the cloth, rushing to put out 3 of the nice glass plates (a plastic one for Sammy), three fancy glass cups with ice (a plastic cup for Sammy) and four sets of silverware (Sammy can handle a big fork). He finds two clear plastic pitchers deep in the tupperware cabinet. He fills one with water, and one with Caprisun, which is time-consuming because he has to squirt five Caprisuns into the pitcher to make it look full. 

By the time the table has been set with a vase of flowers from the surrounding yard (courtesy of Mom), there's the sound of Castiel's truck door closing.

“I got it!” Dean shouts, scrambling back through the house to get to the door before Sammy. Dean about flings the door open to see Cas.

“Hello Dean, Hello Sam,” Cas waves, standing before the open door. For once, his clothes are clean and he doesn’t have a ballcap on. 

“Hi,” Dean says, picking at a sudden hangnail.

“Hi Cas!” Sammy says, nudging around Dean. He hands Cas a jellybean from his open palm. “You c’have it.”

Cas takes it, inspects it, and pops it in his mouth. “Thanks Sam. May I come in?”

The boys nod and lead their friend into the house and shut the door. 

“So, you made lunch today, Dean? Is that right?” Cas asks. 

Dean nods quickly.

“Your hair looks very nice, what’s the occasion?”   

“Uh… I uh, just wanted to… cook lunch.”

“Sounds good to me.”

In the kitchen again, Mom is taking the fruit tray that Dean prepared from the fridge. “Hello Castiel, how are you this week? Happy to have the day off?”

“I'm fine, school has been rough. How are you? And maybe.”

Mom laughs. “I'm fine. If you guys are ready, I believe Dean has set the table outside. Dean? Should we eat now?”

“Oh uh, yeah hang on.” Dean snaps to as everyone else heads outside. He his hands safely in oven mitts and opens the warm oven. He brings out a cookie sheet of grilled cheese triangles,  still gooey and crispy. He transfers them to a nicer serving plate, remembering to use tongs and be proper. He exits the house again with some difficulty, as his hands are full.

“Oooh,” Sammy coos when Dean delivers the sandwiches to the table. 

“Those look good!” Mom says, taking her seat at the table, iron chair scraping the stone patio. 

“Did you make all this yourself?” Cas asks, making to pull out a chair.

Dean zags to Cas and pulls out his chair for him. There's a frozen Moment-- in which Dean is clenching his jaw so hard it hurts-- before Cas takes the offer and sits, saying thank you.

“No problem,” Dean answers, reaching for a grilled cheese. He doesn’t dare look at Mom, who is probably definitely looking at him with the lookiest look. “And yeah, I cooked.”

“Well, thank you,” Cas says, biting into his own food. Everyone begins to eat, and Dean's throat must be half shut. Everyone is saying things, but Dean is just hyper aware of how lopsided his apple slices are as Sammy picks through them. The cheese cubes aren't so cubey either…

Dean picks his crust from his sandwich and takes small bites of the good part. 

“Dean? Are you alright?” Cas asks.

“Um, oh. Yeah. Why?” Dean swallows.

“You just seem quiet.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Don't be sorry.” Cas is wiping his hands, done with his sandwich already. “Do you want to hear about the gecko Jack got?”

Dean sits up in his chair. “He got a gecko?”

“A gecko?” Sammy repeats. 

“Ooh, yuck,” Mom sticks her tongue out. 

“Yes, a leopard gecko. Named Spike.”

Castiel tells them all about his little brother's new pet. It likes a hot rock, eats crickets and worms… they can hold it too and it is bigger than Dean's hand. And while Cas talks, Dean begins to eat his food in earnest.

After a while, there's just 3 cold grilled cheese triangles left on the plate, the Caprisun pitcher is empty, and what's left of everyone's ice cream is melted. It must be two o'clock, because Sammy is asleep at the table, head resting on Mr. Bones. Mom rises from the table, scoops Sammy up in her arms and rests his head over her shoulder. 

“I'm going to put him to bed,” Mom whispers. 

“Okay,” Cas and Dean whisper back. 

“Thank you again Dean, this was very nice. I am feeling very appreciated. Or, stuffed.”

Dean sighs, stretched out with hands on his belly. “Same.”

A bird dips over them, into the tree, and a cicada starts screeching from somewhere. A little fly has found the brownish remains of the apple slices. In the calm, Dean thinks of the gift he has for Cas, and it seems really kind of stupid now. Hmm…. 

Cas has his head tilted back, eyes shut against the sun. The breeze messes his hair up, but he doesn't fix it. Dean checks his own hair in the back of his spoon. It's still going strong. His teeth are clean too.

He really should give Cas his gift. Ugh! He stops himself from groaning out loud. But he can't wimp out. He's not a  _ Lose _ chester, like Dad says. 

“Cas, I'll be right back.”

Cas opens his eyes and squints at Dean. “Are you heading in? How about we take the dishes in with us, too.”

“Oh, uh sure.”

Cas brings the dishes in his arms, Dean grabs a stack of glasses and the tablecloth. They put the dishes in the sink and run water over them for now.

“Cas?” Dean asks, walking back into the kitchen after flinging the tablecloth into the laundry room. “Can you come to my room?”

Cas is drying his hands on Mom's favorite hand towel, the ducky one. “Sure, Dean.”

Dean about skips to his room, heart racing. Cas hasn't ever seen his room, he doesn't think. Thankfully he cleaned it yesterday, like he’s forced to every Friday.

“Wow, you sure like cowboys,” Castiel says upon entering Dean’s room. He's peering at the poster of famous cowboys on his wall, then at the cowboy hat on his coat rack, then at the cowboy sheets on his bed...

Dean's neck and ears get a little too warm. Dean does like cowboys. He knows about almost every cowboy there ever was, he thinks. At least the cool ones. He may have been a cowboy for Halloween six times so far, and done multiple school projects on cowboys. 

Dean opens his closet and ambles for the wrapped box hidden safely under his box of Legos.

“This is for me?” Cas looks surprised as he takes the box from Dean. He breaks the wrapping paper with his thumb and opens the shoe box. His eyebrows pinch together then lift as he lifts the present from the box.

The present is nothing much, really. But Dean made it himself: a small flowerpot. The product of 3 art class periods in school. He got to pattern it and glaze it however he wanted, so while the clay was still wet (and super gross) he carved a picture of him and Cas into it. But then he didn't like that, so he carved some flowers on the other side. Glazing it was hard, there weren't all the right colors to use so he had to make due with bright orange skin and blue hair. Mom said it was beautiful and she was jealous she wasn’t getting it, so that must be good. 

Cas slowly lifts the pot from the box, turning it in his hand. “You made this?”

Dean clasps his hands behind his back. “Mhm.”

Cas looks down at Dean, smiling. “It's wonderful, Dean, thank you very much. I don't deserve something so special.”

Dean's chest swells up like a beach ball being blown into. “Mhm, you do.”

The rest of Dean’s words hide all between his teeth, and he looks at his sneakers. Cas squats down so that his face comes level with Dean's stomach, and Dean has to look at him or else he'll really have to tuck his chin to not look at him. 

Cas is still smiling. “Why do you think I do?” 

“Um. You're always nice and you play with me ‘n Sammy... even though you're bigger and cooler. And well, Mom says my grades are up ‘n stuff too. She says it's because of you, I guess. I hope you work in our yard forever.” Dean's face is so hot by the time he mutters his words, he's sure Cas can tell. 

Cas’ smile has grown, and he ducks his head with a laugh. “You think I'm cool?”

Dean nods eagerly. “You're my friend. I only have cool friends.”

“Well, thank you, Dean. This means a lot, that I've been such an influence to you. Even if I don’t work in your yard  _ forever _ , I’ll still be around to hang out with you and Sam, don’t worry.” Cas stands, and outstretches his arms, inviting a hug.

Dean hugs Cas, his face somehow hotter, pressed into his t-shirt. Cas pats his back. When they let go Cas asks, “Your heart is beating so fast, were you nervous to give me this present?”

“No, my heart is just. Strong,” Dean lies. 

Cas laughs. “Okay. You are  _ very  _ strong. How about we go see what your Mom is up to. Maybe she'll want to play  _ Sorry! _ with us.”

“Yeah!” Dean grabs Cas’ hand and drags him to the game closet, unable to stop smiling. “I call green!” 

  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i hope you liked it, sorry for any mistakes! kudos if you also use the word "yartz" thanks to the mcelroys.  
> calamity-annie.tumblr.com


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